


12 Days of Fitzsimmons Christmases

by notabadday



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas fic!, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notabadday/pseuds/notabadday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted to do something festive and fun for the writers who've been entertaining me throughout the Season 3 madness and the readers who've been encouraging me. I'll be posting twelve festive stories, each one a different Christmas that Fitz and Simmons spend together, and updating every day until the 24th. </p><p>They are all canon compliant and will be posted in chronological order, starting at the very beginning, only a few months after they first meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold December Night

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, fandom!
> 
> I've been looking forward to posting these so I hope you enjoy every chapter. They're all sat on my computer waiting to be posted, taking us all the way up to Christmas Eve. Each chapter is titled with a different Christmas song.
> 
> Just to warn you, I skip a few odd years in the pre-SHIELD era to move the story forward and there are chapters that are left very much up to the reader as to when you think they might happen, i.e. how far into the future. (And loyal readers might notice a few references to things I've established and explored in other fics so let me know if you spot any.)

Jemma sits on the grey stone wall that guards her family home, her wide eyes making maps of the stars. Little of her face is exposed to the bitter cold between the knitted Christmas pudding beanie warming her head and the tartan scarf she’s pulled up to her nose. She can hear the hubbub of the house – the music of Bing Crosby, siblings arguing over Monopoly and the clatter of china plates – from her beloved old hiding place.

 When this home had been her home, the time not spent burning a hole into the desk in her bedroom-cum-office was devoted to perching on this very wall, captivated by the mysteries amidst the stars. Sometimes her father would come and sit beside her. Often, neither said a word. No one else ever intruded on these precious moments, the foundation of their close bond. Growing up, Jemma had spent many nights sat beside her dad wondering if anyone else could ever make her feel so loved.

 Now that she’s back after so long away, the familiar comfort of her stargazing ritual brings solace. The love and laughter of a Simmons family Christmas hasn’t distracted Jemma from the ache in her heart: _Fitz_. She remembers the story his eyes told when they’d said goodbye at the airport. They had betrayed the smile he offered to reassure her. Big, blue and beautiful, but glassy.

 She hears steps coming down the garden path and recognizes her dad’s heavy stride. When Jemma turns, he smiles back but his eyes move quickly to the phone he’s holding: hers. “I thought you’d want to answer this one,” he says, offering it to his daughter with a twinkle in his eye before turning back to the house.

 Jemma grins at the caller ID.

 “Hey,” she sighs.

 “Merry Christmas, Simmons,” Fitz replies warmly. She imagines him smiling brightly, probably wearing one of the home-knitted sweaters that she’s seen folded in the back of his drawers. They look cozy and she’s thought about stealing them countless times, but there’s something so personal about his mother having handmade them just for Fitz that the notion feels too imposing.

 “Merry Christmas, Fitz.” Saying it is the happiest she’s felt all day. She buries her face even deeper into her scarf, holding the phone inside the wool.

 There’s a beat. Then they both start at once:

 “Have you had a nice–”

 “How’s your mum do–”

 “Sorry,” they add in unison. “You go.”

 There’s a shared laugh followed by more silence, and it’s the silence that invites Jemma to confess, “I, uh, I miss you…”

 She can’t see the way he bites his lip and bows his head. He opens his mouth to reply, his brain formulating the best, perhaps least incriminating, phrasing, but she cuts him off: “Hey, are you… Can you go outside?”

 "Simmons?”

 “The sky is really beautiful tonight. The stars are shining: Orion, Sirius, the Hyades. And the moon is so white and big,” she tells him with a marveling wistfulness. “You can’t miss this.”

 It reminds him of the night they’d stayed up until the early hours to watch a meteor shower together from the roof of their dorm block. He wonders if that night lingers as vividly in her memory as in his. She’d brought lawn furniture and blankets; he made them grilled cheeses.

 Fitz one-handedly wraps a scarf around his neck, a reverse-colored version of Jemma’s, and braves the snowy outdoors of his mother’s Scottish home. A fence guards the house in lieu of a wall, so he’s forced to stand on the front path to look up at the view. It’s as remarkable as she’d promised. That moon. Knowing she’s admiring the same spectacle diminishes the distance between them somehow, the stars a map to her.

 “We should have done this last night – might’ve caught the reindeer flying through the sky,” he says lightly, drawing himself out of his reflection. “Still pretty magical, though.”

 “Magical,” she repeats with a laugh, before conceding to his point. “There _is_ something astonishing about the fact that we can be hundreds of miles from each other but still be looking up at the same sky, same moon.”

 They gaze up in wonderment, quietly comforted by the faint sound of the other one breathing, moving, _existing_ on the other end of the line. It occurs to both of them that there’s something bigger than friendship passing between them in this moment but it’s dismissed, as it always is, in favor of apprehension. It’s bigger than friendship, so much bigger: _too much_ bigger.


	2. This Time of the Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Jemma don't let a dodgy internet connection get in the way of their deep personal connection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words about Day 1! I hope you enjoyed today's just as much. I'm thrilled that people seem to be excited about these and really looking forward to sharing each chapter.

“No! Wait! It’s working, it’s working!” Jemma says, almost yelling at her computer as she watches Fitz raise his eyebrows in a small window on her screen. “You’re a person again instead of a flesh-colored blur.”

 “Oh, great,” he laughs.

 “So?” she prompts him, absentmindedly stroking her mother’s little dachshund that has curled up in her lap, just out of view of the camera. “What did you get?”

 “Nothin’ exciting, really.” He shrugs. “Lots of socks.”

 “Did she knit you a new jumper?” she asks eagerly, a keen smile brightening her expression. Even with only the low-resolution visual that their poor internet connection allows for, Fitz is warmed by that smile. It’s the unshakeable disbelief that this beautiful, intelligent girl hangs onto his every word that gets him.

 He stands up a little, legs bent to support his odd stance, as he pulls the hem of the sweater down to show off his mother’s latest masterpiece. A proud ‘F’ is knitted into the center in bold yellow wool. “I think she wanted to do an ‘L’, but worried people might think, ‘L is for loser’. I have to say, I think the jumper says that no matter what the letter is but–”

 “No! It’s lovely,” Jemma insists – truly meaning it. Her eyes look at his image with a firm, unblinking certainty, reiterated by repeated nods and the slow breakthrough of a toothy grin. “Was it a good Christmas, Fitz?”

 The question hangs, earnest and awkward. The quiet of his household doesn’t go unnoticed. Her words sound above the white noise of a lively family – young nieces and nephews and drunk uncles and competitive siblings – while Fitz’s pauses only highlight the silence of his home. He stares at the screen wordlessly for seconds longer than their real life conversations would permit.

 “She… she lay him a place at the head of the table,” he says, voice uneven.

 Words elude her. Her urge to comfort him is immediate; it immerses her like she’s been dropped into a sea of his pain, empathetic grief swallowing her up. All she wants to do is wrap her arms around him and hug his pain away. There is no Skype equivalent. Eventually, the tight pain in her throat subsides enough to allow her to speak strained words. “I suppose it’s particularly hard this time of the year. I can only imagine. But I bet having you home helps.” 

“Or I’m a reminder. I don’t know.”

 “Whatever she’s feeling, she’ll be glad to have you there,” Jemma says, resolute in her conviction. He’s quiet. “You make things better, Fitz.”

 “I’m not sure.”

 “ _I_ am,” she assures him, an ease to her words that gives some comfort of truth. “I keep thinking about how much nicer my Christmas would be if you were here. I love my family, of course, but…” The end of her sentence gets away from her, sinking out of reach.

 “Every time there’s a silence, I keep thinking… you’d know exactly what to say, how to fill it,” Fitz replies pensively. His eyes drop from the screen to his wringing hands.

 She falls silent, studying him for inspiration. Perhaps it should be a comforting disproval of his hypothesis. Perhaps there are silences in his home too overwhelming to disrupt. But then a burst of noise, like a gust of wind, abruptly blows through the speakers as, without knocking, half of Jemma’s family come bounding into her room listing various demands of her, the most universal of which being that she come downstairs. Her mother, her sisters and her brother, with a daughter under each arm, all bombard her with various unwelcome complaints. The noise prompts the dog in her lap to stand up, his paws pressing into Jemma’s thighs through the jean fabric.

 Jemma’s sisters, Beth and Izzy, quickly appear over either shoulder to peer at Fitz as Jemma watches him compose himself, wearing her guilt in a grimace. Beth scoops up the dog, while Izzy is the first to acknowledge Fitz directly, waving with an exaggerated goofiness that purposefully embarrasses Jemma.

 “Guys!” she scolds them.

 “Jem, come down and be sociable,” her mother replies, warm but firm.

 “I’m talking to Fitz.”

 “Hello Fitz!” Izzy says, giddily over-prepared to drag him into the family dispute. There’s a chaotic chorus of “Hello Fitz” from everyone else, before Izzy bounces onto Jemma’s bed in the background and breezily adds, “Just invite him here next time.”

 Jemma’s instinct is to roll her eyes but the idea sticks in her mind. There’s a look she gives her mother that’s instantly returned with approval, permission to make the offer. It’s a trade-off, a wordless agreement that Jemma deems more than fair. Swiveling her chair around to face the cacophonous noise of her family, she says, “I’ll be downstairs in five to beat you all at Operation so I suggest you all use the meantime to prepare yourselves for impending defeat.”

 The many Simmonses obediently file out with relative efficiency, with only Izzy lingering to tease her sister a little more. There’s a taunting “Bye Fitz” on her tongue but she catches it; his guise of merriment fades just long enough to give away the tone of their interrupted conversation so she chooses to withdraw her mocking. She brushes an affectionate hand over Jemma’s hair and follows the others downstairs.

 “Izzy’s right. You should come here next year, Fitz. You and your mum. I promise any silences that I can’t fill, someone else will. In fact, by the end of a holiday here, you’ll be desperate for peace and quiet,” Jemma says, turning back to her computer. There’s a laugh to her tone that’s so charming that he couldn’t say no if he wanted to.

 “That sounds nice.”

 “Okay.” She gives a big, beaming nod. “I better go.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Speak to you later?”

 “Yes. Good luck with Operation. Not that you’ll need it,” he assures her, his words a familiar mix of respect and pride. He savors a last look, and signs off: “Love you, bye.”

 Fitz doesn’t have time to freak out before she replies with a laugh: “I love you too, Fitz. Talk later, bye.”

  _Call ended: 14:32._


	3. Christmas With You is the Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz takes up the invitation to spend Christmas with the Simmons family.

Fitz is contentedly peeling the last of the carrots when he feels a hand brush against his back. His best friend’s mother peers cheerfully over his shoulder to ask, “How you getting on there?”

 “Just about to start chopping for you, Lynn.”

 “Good lad.”

 In a pause as he transitions from the peeler to a small vegetable knife, he catches sight of their families interacting through the open arch between the kitchen and the lounge. Jemma is sat with his mother, perched on the arm of the three-seater, rapt in deep conversation.

 He’d worried so much about this idea: the merging of their Christmases. He’d worried he would cast a shadow over their holiday, their ghosts haunting new halls. He’d worried Jemma would discover a sudden yearning for time apart. He’d worried his mother might cry or withdraw herself. It’s all forgotten now. From the moment of their introduction, Jemma has drawn smile after smile out of his mother. Judy looks at Jemma like she’s the fairy on top of their tree. Fitz doesn’t realize how similar it is to his stock expression for gazing at his friend. Less intense, but that same admiration.

 “I’m so glad you’re joining us this year,” Lynn tells him, interrupting his train of thought. “Last two Christmases, it’s been like Jemma’s head’s somewhere else the whole time.”

 He focuses intently on chopping his designated vegetables with absolute precision.

 “She’s in her element,” she continues, glancing up briefly as Jemma laughs with her brother, John, and Fitz’s mother, Judy. “Making such an effort. I think your mum’s getting quite the performance out of my daughter.”

 “I know,” Fitz laughs. “She’s usually interrupting me and rolling her eyes…”

 “That sounds more like the Jemma I know,” Lynn replies, nodding approvingly as he moves chunks of chopped carrot to one side of the board and grabs the next one. “I think she’s enjoying it, though.”

 Fitz smiles just for himself, before adding, “Same goes for Mum.” He clears his throat before continuing. “I can’t thank you enough for having us.”

 “It’s our pleasure.” It’s an impulsive politeness that escapes her without a thought. She pauses before offering words a little more heartfelt. “You know, it’s just nice to see that Jemma’s found someone… you know, _on her level_. Your mum and I bonded over that: never knowing what to do with our genius kids.” Lynn laughs but it’s empty and nervous; she’s serious, there’s no mistaking it. “You look after each other now – the rest of us can’t keep up.”

 He struggles to know how to reply. “She won’t get rid of me,” is the best he can come up with. He shields behind humor, hoping she doesn’t notice heavy blinks and blushing cheeks. Fitz finishes the last of his chopping and holds the board out towards her for instruction.

 “Throw ‘em in there for me,” she directs him, listening for the gentle plop as he pours his perfectly even carrot slices in with the sprouts and broccoli.

 Her hand warmly pats his back before he moves out of her way, allowing her to lead him back towards the gathering in the lounge.

 “The veggies are on. Do we want to open a few more presents before dinner?” Lynn asks, voice raised, as the entire family suddenly appears from every corner of the house to eagerly take their seats.

 Jemma, Judy, John, Beth, Izzy and the dog all cram onto the big sofa, Jemma’s dad settles into the armchair, and her nieces run to obediently sit cross-legged on the floor while their mother lies half-asleep on the loveseat, happily oblivious to the grand present opening. Lynn and Fitz hover on the border between the kitchen and the lounge. He’s hiding behind her, nervously keeping himself in the shadow of her spotlight.

 “Who hasn’t had many so far?” Lynn surveys her audience, grandchildren with waving hands in the air and her own children who all smile enthusiastically in response. Jemma doesn’t catch her eye. She’s distractedly looking at Fitz, or what little of him is in view. “Jemma?”

 There’s a dramatic pause as everyone looks. Fitz grins at her like the horse he’s placed his bet on just claimed first prize.

 “Holly, do you want to pick one out from under the tree for me?” Jemma asks modestly, the niece closest to the tree scrambling quickly to find her a gift. They all watch as six-and-a-half-year-old Holly, the bossy eldest of Jemma’s brother, turns over each gift tag to read its address. Eventually she finds one, wrapped in brown paper with a fabric ribbon patterned with red tartan.

 “This one’s for you, Auntie Jemma,” she announces. “From Judy Fitz.”

 “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Jemma says in a gasp, turning to Fitz’s mother beside her with raised eyebrows. Holly pushes the gift into Jemma’s hands before settling back into her tree-guarding spot with her legs crossed, impatiently glaring at her aunt as she awaits her next task.

 Jemma carefully unties the bow, making sure to fold up the ribbon for reuse as it comes undone. The brown paper falls apart easily to reveal a soft bundle of wool. Jemma pulls it out to unveil the present: a home-knitted sweater with a big ‘J’ emblazoned in the center.

 “It’s nothing much but–”

 Jemma interrupts. “It’s perfect!”

 Fitz watches with pride as she gratefully hugs his mum, noticing as she discreetly blinks away tears. She catches his eye and smiles just for him, pressing the gift to her chest for emphasis.

 “I got one,” she mouths gleefully.

 He nods back, grinning. As soon as the moment passes, he makes sure to bank it in his memory. Whatever future Christmases may hold, Fitz feels sure this one will be treasured forever.


	4. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma takes a very reluctant Fitz ice-skating.

Jemma is gliding gracefully across the ice, showing off every move in her impressive repertoire as her best friend watches spellbound from a bench on the sidelines. She flies across the ice, peppering in upright spins and arabesque poses. Every few seconds her eyes return to him, checking that she’s holding his attention. She needn’t worry; the astrophysics textbook and the pages of notes in front of him lie forgotten. After one particularly spectacular twirl, he calls out to her: “I never knew you were such a show-off!”

 “Well, usually you’re showing off with me,” she points out, changing direction to skate nearer to where he’s sitting. “When are you gonna get your skates on?”

 “After that display? I don’t think so!”

 “ _Fitz_!” she pleads.

 “ _Simmons_.”

 They stare each other down for a minute, smirking, before she breaks. “I’ll help you! Come on. Everyone else is having a go. We can do homework after, I promise. Together. I have some thoughts on your subatomic particle theory and I plan to hold them hostage in my brain until you come and skate with me.” She shows off an easy, polished figure-of-eight in time with the festive music that plays in the background, as though to illustrate her point.

 “I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be talking me out of homework, Simmons,” he says, laughing to himself.

 “Listen, nobody loves homework more than I,” she declares with dramatic flair, “but you know what else I love? Christmas!”

 Fitz reflexively drops his head to conceal his irrepressible enjoyment of her charming giddiness. It’s persuasive. He can feel the pull of it drawing his attention to the ice skates that she has so carefully picked out and set beside him. The homework is becoming an increasingly unconvincing cover as he struggles to take his eyes off her, and he wonders if he might be under less scrutiny if he was skating alongside her. If he can possibly keep up.

 “Come on. You know you want to,” she says, teasingly moving her eyebrows up and down in time with her shoulders.

 “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” he replies, shaking his head.

 Noticing his resolve weakening, she puts on a silly voice to call out to him: “Dance, monkey, dance.”

 His defeat is predestined. He can’t fight it. Why try? Fitz pushes the books off his lap and swaps them for the skates. As Jemma gives a little victory dance, it catches the attention of her family as they skate abstract shapes in the background, grinning to themselves over the inevitable success of Jemma’s mission. He’ll never know that Jemma bet all of them that she could get Fitz on the ice by the end of their visit.

 She tucks her hands into her coat pockets and moves in small waves near the gap in the barrier, eagerly waiting for him.

 Fitz steps out from beneath an obnoxiously oversized sign that reads ‘Winter Wonderland’ in a borderline unreadable font, with a backdrop that is patterned with snowflakes. It becomes clear very quickly that Fitz has never set foot on ice before. He stumbles around the edge, Bambi-esque, relying on the rink’s barrier to keep him upright as she moves in confident strides around him.

 “Come on,” she encourages, offering a gloved open palm to him. Her fingers twitch for him to take them in his. Fitz stares at her hand for an uncomfortable length of time before she impatiently grabs him and begins to gently pull him behind her.

 They coast along, gliding across a quiet corner of the ice. She turns to check on him. There’s a studious expression on his face. She can see the cogs turning; he’s trying to find a process to it, to science it somehow. The way he moves along behind her is so visibly an unnatural adaptation to a new environment that she reads his frown as focus rather than unhappiness.

 “You’re doing well,” she assures him, a bright smile on her lips.

 He’s focusing on his feet as they slide along but looks up at the sound of her voice. Lifting his head, Fitz has only a millisecond after meeting her breathtaking gaze before his feet slip out from under him. He lands hard on his backside and the violent thump stings through multiple layers of thick clothing. He can already foresee the deep purple bruise stretching from his thighs to his lower back, feels it forming on his skin already. The noise that escapes him is so loud that the entirety of the modest crowd skating around the ice rink turn in unison to identify where it’s coming from.

 Jemma’s still holding onto his hand, miraculously steady on her feet and standing over him attentively. “Fitz!” she gasps. He looks back at her with a simple “don’t” in his eyes.

 For a long, self-pitying beat, he sits defeated on the ice before glancing back up with eyes communicating his desperate plea for help. She leans down and takes him in an awkward hug to pull him back to his feet. They stumble in their embrace before both are straightened up again. Instead of taking his hand, she moves to his side and lifts his arm to her shoulder, letting herself hold him up as they glide along together to return to the barrier – much to Fitz’s relief.

 “Are you okay?”

 “Yeah, but you better’ve got me a really good present this year,” he replies, tone transforming from crabby to jovial midway through his sentence.

 “Oh, I bought you those skates...” she says dryly, pointing to his feet. It catches him out for a second and an automatic glower gives away his naïveté. She can’t help but let a laugh escape. Realizing his misunderstanding, neither can he.

 “A _really_ good present, Simmons,” he warns.

 “Yeah, yeah.”


	5. Secret Santa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz accidentally reveals the truth about Santa Claus to Jemma's niece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Insp](http://notabadday.tumblr.com/post/133961802975/jayevies-im-reading-shield-12-and-they):
> 
> From S.H.I.E.L.D. #12

“No, no, Hol–”

 “But you’re all twitchy, Fitzy!” Holly replies, her lip wobbling furiously.

 An oblivious Jemma comes back into the lounge with two mugs of tea in her hands, wearing a contented smile that quickly fades at the sight of her crying niece. Fitz’s head snaps around to her, terror in his eyes.

 “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asks Holly nervously. Jemma carefully places the mugs down next to the Celebrations box that’s filled with more wrappers than chocolates on the coffee table, before rushing to kneel at the young girl’s side. Fitz has a conciliatory hand on Holly’s back but he draws away once backup arrives.

 “Santa’s not coming,” Holly cries, her words muffled as she curls around her aunt.

 Jemma glares at Fitz before mouthing, “What did you do?” He responds with a panicked shrug, eyes wide with apology, before Jemma speaks softly to placate her niece. “Sweetie, of course Santa’s coming. What on earth makes you think he’s not?”

 “He’s not real, is he?”

 “Of course he’s real!” Fitz chimes in, an impotent display for Jemma’s benefit, having already worn this insistence out. He knows his word has lost all credibility in the eyes of the young girl. It didn’t take long.

 “He’s lying,” Holly says, her face buried in Jemma’s shoulder.

 “No, no, he’s not.”

 “Santa’s real. And he’s _definitely_ coming.” The fiction of it is more apparent in his words than ever. He knows it, too. As soon as his white lie escapes him, he looks at his friend with a repentant frown. “He’s just a little late, Hol, that’s all. It’s been a busy year. But he’ll be here by–”

 “–lunchtime!” Jemma finishes for him, much to his relief.

 “Yep. So, we have the presents from each other, and then we’ll all pretend to be asleep after lunch so that Santa can make it up to us,” Fitz suggests as Holly draws her face away from its hiding place, wiping her snot and turning to stare her honorary uncle down. There’s a long staring contest between them as Jemma looks between best friend and niece alternately, awaiting its conclusion.

 Eventually, evidently satisfied by his answer, Holly gives an accepting shrug and runs off to go and find presents labeled with her name in the modest pile beneath the tree. Fitz breathes out a whole-body sigh of relief before turning to see Jemma raising her eyebrows at him.

 “Next time, tell your sister to check the weather report – or leave earlier,” he says, deciding that attack is the best form of defense. “Holly’s very… inquisitive.”

 Jemma settles beside Fitz on the floor with her back rested against the sofa and her legs stretched out under the coffee table. She turns to give him a little grin, his cue to stand down. “The pretending to be asleep idea was cute.”

 “Well, I reckon she’d recognize her aunt smuggling in a sack full of presents, whether or not she was dressed in a Santa suit. She’s perceptive,” Fitz explains. “I think she knows my tells.”

 “What? But you’re so impossible to read,” she replies with teasing sarcasm.

 “Har har. She’s eight!”

 “And you’re just that obvious.”

 “Well, _likewise_ , Simmons,” he retorts. There’s no bite to it. His eyes are warm and round and fixed on hers.

 “Mmm, perhaps, but I didn’t just ruin Santa Claus for a small child, did I?”

 “I think I pulled it back at the end there!” he argues, a high-pitched squeak to his words.

 She says nothing, choosing to instead pick up her mug and sip her tea in perfect avoidance of a reply. Fitz knows this play well. It’s a favorite move of Jemma’s. He follows suit, belatedly offering her thanks and reaching for one of the last Mars Celebrations.

 After lunch, Jemma lets Fitz be the one to announce to the entire family that they’ve been committed to his fake-sleeping idea. Carefully coding his words, he defensively reminds them all of the need to create an opportunity for Izzy to sneak in to deliver presents she was supposed to arrive with the night before.

 It’s only as they play along, walking upstairs for their “nap” that Holly pulls Jemma to one side. “You alright, sweetie?” her aunt asks, a little alarmed.

 “Fitz was lying earlier,” Holly confides.

 It catches Jemma unawares. Eventually, she stumbles over a weak, drawn out “no”.

 Her niece gives a somber nod to back up her confession. There’s caution in her manner, as though she wants to break it to Jemma gently. “Yeah, but I don’t think we should tell him…” she suggests, holding eye contact with determined focus. “He wants to pretend.”

 Jemma’s mouth hangs open. She’s searching around in her brain for a response. Holly watches her fixedly, waiting for Jemma to approve her suggestion. After a moment of thought, her aunt bends down to kneel at her level and conspiratorially whispers, “I think this can be just between us.”

 Holly nods.

 Just as they begin walking again, Fitz wanders through from the kitchen to follow the girls upstairs, mindlessly singing to himself: “ _Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus_ …” 

 They exchange wry smiles. As Fitz catches up with them, obliviously making his way up the stairs in a cheerful skip, Jemma leans behind him and gives Holly a covert wink. Just between them.


	6. Underneath the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Jemma find themselves underneath the mistletoe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a really bad day yesterday and all your kind words on my last chapter really cheered me up enormously so I have to thank everyone for that! I really hope you continue to enjoy.

“Hey, you two!” Izzy calls across the room to Fitz and Jemma as they loiter in the doorway of the kitchen, engrossed in a conversation about the demotion of Pluto. “Look up.”

 The dread sets in. They know what’s coming. Reluctantly, they both glance up at the mistletoe hanging over them. Everyone watches: all of the Simmons siblings, both mothers and her dad. They’re all smirking except Judy, whose expression forms worry lines between her eyebrows.

 Fitz and Jemma focus on each other. Typically, they can communicate without a word, eyes conversing in their own silent language. As Jemma looks up at her beloved best friend, years of history behind them, she finds no answers. It’s as though he’s turned on a firewall. There’s nothing there for her. Not a yes, not a no. He’s unreadable. For the first time in their shared life, she has no idea what he’s thinking. Of all the things she hates about this particular moment, Fitz blocking her out is the worst of all.

 He doesn’t move away, mostly because he’s too petrified to move, so she decides the easiest way to end their humiliation is to bite the bullet. She shifts her weight onto her tiptoes to close the gap between them, and gently presses her lips to his. The speed of it gives him time to escape, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap shut at the moment of her kiss and, unconsciously, he moves down to follow her lips as she draws away. It’s short but sweet. Their eyes open to reveal cherry red cheeks and trembling lips.

 Jemma laughs nervously under his gaze before turning to her family with a scolding glare that tells them their fun is over. There’s no humor in the faces she finds, though. They’re all avoiding her eyes, heads bowed in guilt or discomfort. Izzy shoots an apologetic glance to her sister that Jemma doesn’t quite comprehend. She’s too used to her playful teasing to anticipate apologies.

 She turns back to Fitz and shakes her head like they’re both in on a bad joke. He’s still fixed in position. He doesn’t give much away, never accessing the humor of it.

 “Sorry, it was…” Jemma struggles. “I hope that was okay.”

 He stammers for a minute before managing only, “Yeah. It’s, err, yeah.”

 It shuts down their light repartee. Jemma quickly busies herself with sous chef duties while Fitz struggles to cover his bewilderment.

 It’s only minutes later when Izzy passes Fitz in the hallway that she begins to understand the depth of his distress; it extends far beyond the show of embarrassment that he and Jemma had shared in. His face is white as snow, the only color in his skin being his dark pink ears. Izzy notices him avoid her eye-line. He walks so close to the line of the wall, it’s as though he’s hoping to turn chameleonic and disappear into the wallpaper. Instead, his entire body gives away his vulnerability.

 “Hey, are you–” She stops, noticing his frown becomes more pronounced as she speaks. “Fitz?”

 “S’nothing,” he mutters, biting his bottom lip subconsciously.

 Eventually, he looks up with a forced closed mouth smile fixed to his lips: some feeble attempt at getting his friend’s sister to surrender to his resistance. She sees through the lie, his expression loaded with tells. Watching the realization in her eyes, he dejectedly gives up his façade without much of a fight. They stand looking at each other in a heavy, unbreathable silence. This soundless sadness is broken by Izzy’s audible inhalation, breath hitching as she takes in his revelation. Eyes like oceans, she can see that the weight of his unspoken confession threatens to drown him.

 “Oh, Fitz,” she whispers, sympathy permeating her terse response. Its tragic echo of his best friend’s favorite catchphrase is not lost on Fitz, whose head bows in something resembling shame.

 She steps forward with her arm reaching over his shoulder to bring him in for a warm hug. It’s the kind that the Simmons family gives liberally, but that Fitz just can’t get used to. His hard chin digs into the line of Izzy’s shoulder, the sharp edges of his awkwardness impeding comfort.

 “I’m sorry we teased you. I’ll… I’ll make sure they let it go…”

 “S’okay,” he says, twitching uncomfortably at the increasing transparency of their exchange. “Don’t… don’t say anything.”

 “I wouldn’t,” Izzy says, not letting a beat pass before swearing it. “Does she–”

 “No.”

 “You could talk to her about it.”

 “Yeah,” he replies, sarcasm circumventing tears. “And her boyfriend.”

 Izzy moves her hand in strokes across his back the same way she pacifies her nieces when they’re fighting with each other and she can’t think of an intelligible response. It then occurs to her to offer him one small, promising pearl: “Her boyfriend who didn’t get an invite for Christmas?”

 He laughs to himself. It’s pity that earns his seat at her dinner table; he’s certain of it. But Izzy’s attempt to help warms him. “It’ll pass,” he says, pulling away to look her in the eye. This lie is more convincing. He has himself fooled, at least. “It _will_ pass.”

 She feels the tug of tiny hands on the hem of her skirt before she can offer a skeptical rebuttal. Their heads drop in sync to find a bright-eyed young toddler looking for attention. It’s Lucy, the third child of Jemma and Izzy’s brother who’s been spending the holiday season putting her newly acquired walking skills to good use. She’s wearing a strand of silver tinsel around her neck like it’s a feather boa. Thankful for the interruption, Fitz quickly leans down to scoop her up.

 “Hello trouble,” he says, abruptly shifting his tone to warmhearted teasing.

 Lucy giggles a little, looking up at him with her arms tight around his neck. She presses her face hard against his cheek and it’s the kind of aggressively affectionate behavior he knows to expect of her. It makes a relieving change from the quiet, cautious concern that his conversation with Izzy had carried. He uses it as his extraction plan and carries Lucy back towards the gathering of people in the kitchen, as though she’d requested the journey. He stops in the doorway once again, unable to move into the room because Lucy’s sisters have made the kitchen floor their play area despite unanimous protestations.

 Fitz feels her weight shift in his arms all of a sudden and sees that Lucy has reached up and grabbed the sprig of mistletoe from the doorframe to pull it off. She plays with it curiously, her interest having transformed her expression to intense focus.

 “D’you know what that is, Lulu?” Lynn asks, watching her granddaughter from across the kitchen. Lucy looks up at her blankly. “Mistletoe is for kissing under.”

 Lucy looks at Fitz as though for confirmation. He gives a little nod before taking the sprig from her small fingers, holding it between them and kissing her cheek. Her hands lovingly paw his face as she chuckles heartily at him.

 “Some say that kissing under the mistletoe is a promise to marry,” Beth chimes in with a singsong lilt to her delivery.

 “Well I don’t think she’s quite old enough to be making that kind of commitment,” he replies wryly, tickling Lucy in his arms before putting her down and using the opportunity to dispense with the cursed mistletoe once and for all.

 He sees Lynn and Beth both give him a charitable laugh, but doesn’t catch the smile that forms on Jemma’s lips. Her back stays turned while she obediently continues turning over her mother’s half-roasted potatoes.

 Besides, he’s too self-conscious to look in her direction anyway.


	7. Fairytale of New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When extreme weather conditions leave the team stranded in New York after another of Coulson's 'Welcome Wagon' missions, Jemma is determined not to let it ruin their Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, this best fits into canon if you think of Christmas as happening between 'Repairs' and 'The Bridge' during Season 1. There's some flexibility, but obviously the Season 1 midseason finale leaves Coulson MIA, which I didn't feel was written to occur over the Christmas period anyway. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

After five drinks, Jemma is feeling footloose and fancy-free. The rest of the team are struggling to overcome their bitterness at having to spend their Christmas Day in an airless, run-down New York pub with a limited bar and a half-broken karaoke machine. Stranded by record snowfall after Coulson’s latest ‘Welcome Wagon’ mission, they are exhaustedly letting out their frustration with much wine and much whining. Jemma, though, is determinedly refusing to let their misfortune get the better of her.  She is dancing up to each member of the group in turn but it’s Fitz who appears most discomfited by it, despite having had the most experience of intoxicated Simmons. She shimmies beside him, forcing him to shift closer and closer to Ward, who remains unfazed.

 “Fiiiiiitz!” she exclaims, far louder than necessary. “Come ooooon. One soooong.” The last syllable of every sentence is painfully drawn out and he leans away as far as he can without lying across Ward. He’s relieved when Jemma’s attention is thrown by Skye’s return from the ladies room. “Skye! You’ll do one with me, come on.”

 Jemma doesn’t give her the thinking time to refuse and given Skye’s own wine-soaked mental faculties, she allows herself to be dragged all the way across the dingy room to a modest little platform, only to have a battered microphone thrust into her hands. She quickly accepts her fate and takes hold of it, looking quite the popstar all of a sudden, with a dramatic opening pose to boot. Jemma follows her lead.

 “Oh! Which one?” Jemma asks before selecting a song without pausing for the answer, seemingly surprising even herself with this sudden assertiveness.

 Skye’s eyes light up as the screen reveals the opening lyrics. “Yes!”

 They somberly deliver the opening verse of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas is You’ with relative composure. Fitz and Ward watch, amused by their commitment to the performance, while May looks on with a faint smirk on her lips. There are air grabs and sways by even the second line. They over-indulge in every elongated note almost in competition with one another until, as the pace of the song picks up, they both suddenly erupt into an excited burst of spirited shout-singing, directed, of course, to Fitz and only Fitz.

 “ _I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know_ ,” they sing together, moving closer and closer as they serenade him. “ _Make my wish come true. All I want for Christmas is yoooou-ooooh, baby_.”

 His ears are as red as the Santa Claus hat that Skye’s forced upon a napping, unsuspecting Agent Coulson. Once Fitz has been thoroughly embarrassed, Skye and Jemma dance their way back to their stage to finish their performance. Its conclusion prompts modest cheers and they both lap it up with a grateful, if not rather over-the-top, wave to their fans.

 “I can go all night. Come on, if I can’t sing _with_ you, I’m just gonna have to sing _to_ you,” Jemma warns Fitz as she slides back into the booth beside him. “It’s Christmas. Let it be your gift to me.”

 “I already bought you a gift,” he says irritably.

 “We’re stuck in New York. No family, no turkey. Just this dive and a karaoke machine. Let me have this.” She follows it up with the kind of pleading pout that only Five-Drink Jemma would ever dare use. But it works its magic. He’s weak.

 “I don’t like you very much.”

 “Ya love me,” she laughs back. Her words shake him up, but she’s too distracted by the thrill of his surrender, or perhaps too drunk, to take any notice. Neither does she notice the way his face tightens as she slips her hand in his to lead him back to her stage.

 “I’m not doing anything cheesy,” he moans.

 “Alright, Grumpy-Pants. I know one you’ll like. Trust me,” she assures him, choosing a smile from her repertoire that she knows will appease him. The drink has not deprived Jemma of all of her faculties; her Fitz-cyclopedia is as accessible as ever. She taps on her selection before he can read any of the available options. “Get ready, you start first.”

 “It’s a proper duet?”

 “Yeah,” she replies, because of course. “We’re doing this properly, my friend.”

 He bites his lip as they wait for the opening lyrics to appear. It seems to take a lifetime. He takes a quick swig of his beer.

 “It was Christmas Eve, babe,” he reads, before turning quickly to look admiringly at Jemma and whisper in surprise, “I like this one.”

 “I know!”

 He misses his cue.

 “Sing!”

 “… _In the drunk tank… he said to me, won’t see another one_ …” he starts singing, his voice affected without intention, instinctively playing up his own drunkenness to play the part. He’s nervous still, but less so, the silliness of the performance helping him along as he leans into the inebriated persona.

 She cheerfully cuts in with, “ _They’ve got cars big as bars, they’ve got rivers of gold, but the wind blows right through you; it’s no place for the old. When you first took my hand on a cold Christmas Eve, you promised me Broadway was waiting for me! You were handsome!”_

 “ _You were pretty! Queen of New York City_ ,” he sings back, at last interacting with Jemma instead of awkwardly shifting away.

 By the end of this particular verse, half the room has spiritedly joined them in song. No one seems to miss out on the old “You scumbag, you maggot” line, with Fitz and Jemma swaying cheerfully as the song bounces along. He’s caught up in it, distracted from his lonely mother and their unopened presents and her father’s roasted parsnips – at least for four minutes and 33 seconds. Five drinks don’t stop Jemma from appreciating that.

 They celebrate the song’s end with a triumphant hug. However, as soon as Fitz’s self-consciousness returns, he drops his microphone with a dull thud and makes a break for it.


	8. Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma and Fitz wonder if Christmas might be their opportunity to reach out to one another after a difficult few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after the midseason finale in Season 2.

Neither of them return home for the holidays. They don’t talk about it. Jemma outwardly pretends it’s to look after Skye. She doesn’t want family to see her now. Fitz inwardly pretends it’s to look after Skye. He doesn’t want family to see him now.

 They find out about each other’s decision from their parents.

 They share in the guilt that Fitz’s mother will be all alone again. Fitz manages to convince himself that it’s better than learning of her only child’s brain injury. There’s no one to persuade him otherwise. Jemma doesn’t dare, still only ever delicately thumbing over the cracks of their friendship with nervous reserve. She barely speaks to him above a whisper. They’ve made moderate progress. The ghost of a hand on her shoulder keeps her upright, one small gesture marking a giant leap forward.

 She writes him a Christmas card and slides it under his door in the middle of the night. It takes her hours to work up the courage to deliver it. The message reads: “Dear Fitz, Happy Christmas. I hope you get a monkey this year. Love, Jemma.”

 Earlier drafts sit at the bottom of her trashcan. Each one possesses varying degrees of openness. The most heartfelt of these almost makes it. It has the messiest penmanship. There are arrows directing him through the flow of writing. It’s a chaotic brainstorm of feeling across both sides of the card. This discarded inscription reads:

 “Fitz, I miss you more than I can say.

 “I keep thinking about what we’d be doing at home now, wondering which of my nieces would be using you as a climbing frame (all of them, probably) and how many parsnips you’d be stealing from my plate (all of them, definitely). Perhaps you’d be sharing your silly jokes with the kids… What was it last time? ‘What do you get if you cross a shark and a snowman?’ I miss those terrible jokes and the stupid grin on your face as you’d tell them.

 “God, how I wish we were there. I couldn’t bear them to see how broken we’ve become but I wish we could be there, unbroken somehow. How do we unbreak this thing between us? Tell me how. I keep searching for the right way. I think my heart is going to burst out of my chest if I don’t tell you soon… You’re my best friend in the world, Fitz. But you were right, we _are_ more than that.

 “Merry Christmas.

 “All my love, Jemma.”

 He’ll never read it. He’ll never know it. He’ll never believe it.

 Instead Fitz picks the blank red envelope containing her final draft off his floor and sighs, knowing full well what it contains. He reads it, tears sitting in his eyelashes but never falling. The word ‘happy’ in the center of the card seems boldly inappropriate. Happiness is a thing of the past by Fitz’s assessment. Every little glimmer of joy stirs a memory of when they were young, when Simmons matched him stride for stride and they weren’t carrying the weight of the world.

 He never finds the words for his own his card.

 It takes him all day to decide what to do. The mix of longing and bitterness makes for a complex evaluation of his options. They avoid each other awkwardly, sharing in the group toasts and dinner conversation without ever interacting directly. It’s conspicuous but their friends know better than to comment.

 As the 25th draws to a close, Fitz finds one of Skye’s unused gift tags in the common room and writes out: “What does Santa suffer from if he gets stuck in a chimney? ( _Claus_ trophobia.)”

 He slides the little note under Jemma’s door on the way back to his room.


	9. Let It Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a difficult few months, Coulson decides to reward the team with a proper Christmas on the base. (Set right after the Season 3 midseason finale. This is effectively the Christmas as it would be now, in my optimistic dreams.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to your regularly scheduled fluff, as promised.

To mark the end of one hell of a year, Coulson goes to considerable effort to host a grand, merry family Christmas on the base. He foots the bill for a real Christmas tree and a colorful array of festive ornaments to decorate it. There are presents piled up from the Secret Santa that Daisy organizes with childlike enthusiasm, soaking up every tradition of her first _real_ Christmas. It’s lively and lovely, and the perfect welcome for the newbies, with Joey and Lincoln integrating effortlessly into the group dynamic. Fitz and Jemma are notably more subdued than the others but relish the cozy warmth of the team celebrations nevertheless.

 They make a three-course Christmas dinner, prepared primarily by Mack and Jemma who apprehensively decline inhuman assistance from Joey and Daisy – just in case. (There’s only one turkey, after all.) Hunter sits obstructively on one of the kitchen counters offering limitless unhelpful remarks about how he likes his veggies cooked and the way his mother used to make the stuffing. Bobbi and May select the wine. Coulson takes charge of the music, inadvertently choosing the exact compilation album that Jemma’s dad always plays on a loop on Christmas day. It begins to feel just like home.

 After they’ve eaten, just as the entire team begins moaning with stomach cramp, the director decides to give his agents one last festive treat and leads them out to Zephyr One, giving May coordinates and a look that simply says, “You’ll see.”

 They park up somewhere north of the base, this location being the least of Coulson’s many secrets. It’s surrounded by beautiful rolling hills of snow as snowflakes fall softly through the frosty air. Led by their boss, the team walks out contentedly in step with one another to discover the white wonderland, a winter scene to rival that of their previous, short-lived base. Fitz and Jemma stand close together on the edge of the hangar deck marveling at the snowy scene.

 “I thought you could all let off some steam, practice your combat skills,” Coulson suggests, a false airiness about him as he bends down to ball up a handful of snow. Before he’s able to throw it, he’s knocked forward by a blow to the back of his head and turns to reveal Agent May standing smugly meters behind him, brushing her hands together.

 It takes seconds for chaos to erupt. Everyone breaks off into smaller factions: Coulson versus May, Hunter versus Bobbi and Mack, Daisy and Joey versus Lincoln. Fitz and Jemma stand still among them, barely out of the line of fire, watching in amusement as their friends run around in spirited laughter.

 They glance up at each other, a mischievous twinkle in Jemma’s eye that Fitz reads all too easily. She abruptly disappears around the side of the plane as he decides to find cover in the opposite direction.

 They meet at the other side of the plane with snowballs in each hand and lock eyes before firing their inaugural throws. Jemma gets one successful shot to his shoulder, crumbling ice melting into his coat, before giving chase.

 “Jemma!” he calls out after her. She instinctively turns to face him.

 A perfect sphere of white snow hurtles through the air, hitting Jemma smack bang in the center of her forehead and knocking her back a little. She loses her footing briefly before running to shield herself behind Zephyr One. She uses her cover to redouble her efforts, swiftly producing a backlog of snowballs ready for attack. Aim is her weakness, preparedness her specialty.

 Jemma resourcefully fills her deep pockets – this particular coat selected for its storage capacity – with firm balls of snow, these creations a little smaller in size but greater in number. She peers around to survey the battleground and locate her target. He’s barely in view as he kneels in the snow to form his own weather weapons, while their friends are caught up in their own duels. Fitz and Jemma take no notice of the others. It’s one-on-one.

 She waits for the opportune moment before launching her attack. Seizing her chance, she dashes out to hurriedly throw each snowball at her moving target as he attempts to return the shots. Instead of relying on her aim, she decides to close in on him, charging at Fitz to throw from progressively closer range. He runs out of return balls fast and she’s grinning, acceptance in his face as she approaches with one final winning snowball. She saves it.

 They’re a couple of meters apart when she throws the last shot, aiming for the forehead to repay his perfect shot. It hits him hard on the nose. Fitz loses balance and falls flat into the thick snow. Jemma’s run at him has built too much momentum to stop herself going down with him and she collapses comfortably on top. Their puffy winter coats and the cushion of snow ensure a soft landing as her body lies over his.

 “Oh my god! Are you okay?” she asks, genuine concern mixing with uncontrollable laughter. One hand covers her mouth in a vain attempt to conceal the latter, the other rests on his chest for support.

 He looks a little disoriented for a moment before focusing in on the close up of Jemma’s face hovering so close above his own. “Yeah,” he replies dazedly.

 As Fitz fades back into consciousness, her laughter subsides. Their eyes lock in serious gaze. She’s studying every detail of his face, her concern for his injury simply a ruse to allow her own indulgent stare. He’s watching her and the way her focus moves across his skin before returning to his eyes.

 She stays pressed against him for what feels like forever. _If only_ , he thinks. Everything in their periphery goes out of focus, sight and sound contained within their bubble. Instinct doesn’t compel her to get up. Quite the opposite. Fitz certainly doesn’t feel like prompting it. His hand rests limply on her back, encouraging but too light to be mistaken for coercion.

 He feels her sigh against him and wonders if perhaps it’s an acceptance of the rest of their lives – to be lived in this heavenly limbo lying together on a bed of white snow. Their brief forever ends as she eventually rolls off him to lie at his side. She shifts far enough away that she can stretch out without reaching him.

 Fitz watches as Jemma marks the delicate snow in the shape of an angel before eagerly gesturing for him to copy her. Obediently, he begins stretching his limbs to replicate her motion. With his arms extended, their hands – now carving out angel wings – cross over at one particular point in the snow and instinctively join, woolen-clad fingers weaving together.

 They still.

 In the middle of frenzied snowball fights, they still.

 Hands held, Fitz and Jemma admire the darkening sky and watch as delicate snowflakes fall over them. Fitz moves his free arm to position as a headrest but continues to hold the hand in hers utterly still. The peacefulness of the moment deceives them of their own comfort. The chill doesn’t creep into consciousness before they’re both half-frozen despite their layers of thick wool.

 They both wake up sneezing on Boxing Day. They don’t regret a thing.


	10. The Man With All The Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz has just about everything he's ever wanted, leaving Jemma with quite the challenge when it comes to choosing his Christmas present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been away for the past few days so I've been posting whenever I've had chance to borrow a computer but I'm home at last, just in time to put the final touches on the last few chapters. I hope you enjoy this one. It was the first chapter I started writing and I'm still fond of it.
> 
> This one can fit wherever you'd like into their future timeline, whether you want it to be next Christmas or a little further off, though I like to imagine it's sooner rather than later. You were promised fluff and I think this is about as fluffy as they come...

 When Fitz and Jemma finally make it home again for Christmas, the great shift in their relationship is joyfully apparent to one and all. They don’t busy themselves with chores, or disruptively argue about the virtues of their respective scientific fields. There’s no teasing at all. It’s a contented quiet.

 They sit wrapped up in each other, sharing a single seat like couples they used to people-watch and mock during lunch breaks at the academy: nauseatingly in love. She’s curled up in his lap, feet tucked between his leg and the edge of the cushion with one arm draped around his neck, her hand brushing absentmindedly through his hair. Their initial claim for the armchair had been for a view of the television, but neither one of them has drawn their eyes away from the other. They exchange quiet words that no one catches, their eyes serious while their lips reveal subtle smiles.

 They find excuses to touch each other. His hands are firm against her, holding her comfortably in position with one on her waist and the other resting on her thigh, ensuring she doesn’t fall forward off of the chair. Sometimes they don’t bother with excuses. The gentle strokes she weaves through his short curls are an indulgent, subconscious tick. Her other hand rests over his on her leg, interlocking her fingers with his. In pauses of their conversation, she moves her head to rest in the curve of his neck and adjusts it habitually to feel the brush of her skin against his.

 The mothers look at each other knowingly. The looks read: _at last_. And _thank goodness_. And _here we go_.

 Jemma and Fitz are unapologetic in their contentment, its attainment too hard won for dithering now. At dinner, they pull crackers together and crown each other with colorful paper hats. They hold hands under the table between courses. When Jemma finishes first, without a thought, her hand moves to rest affectionately on his leg. Later, when it’s time for gifts, they return to what has quickly become _their_ chair and resume their position.

 Her niece Lucy is the first to interrupt their idyll with her own agenda. Climbing across the top of the sofa before leaping over to them, she lands on the arm next to Jemma and pulls herself over to pile on. Fitz adjusts himself to stop the two girls from toppling forward onto the floor and the seriousness of his expression is enough to send Lucy into a fit of giggles. “You’re silly,” she tells him, reaching out a finger to poke his cheek.

 “I get that a lot,” Fitz replies, shooting Jemma a grin. She can’t help but draw up a hand to sit warmly against his face – a welcome contrast to Lucy’s poke.

 “He _is_ very silly.”

 Lucy relishes this reaction and settles more firmly within their embrace. She leans back against Fitz and her apparent ease with him stirs such an intense feeling of affection that he can’t help but surrender to a bashful smile. “You haven’t opened any presents!” she points out, with a certain degree of indignation to her observation.

 “Your auntie Jemma’s my present,” he replies, playing it up for effect.

 Lucy turns to pull quite the face at him, unimpressed. “She’s not a present!”

 Fitz reaches around awkwardly to grab the discarded bow he spies on the coffee table and plops it on top of Jemma’s head, prompting his girlfriend to scrunch her nose. “See.”

 Lucy continues to laugh at him as Jemma affectionately plays with her niece’s soft red hair, warmed by their interaction. She loves the way her family accepts him: her mother’s fussing, her father’s questions, her siblings’ teasing, the children eagerly finding ways to earn his attention. She knows them all well enough to read their approval. She sees the way they react to news of a romantic shift like it’s passé, like it’s not news at all – not to them anyway.

 “Fitz does have a present,” Jemma whispers to Lucy, in easy earshot of Fitz.

 “Besides you?” he asks playfully.

 “Besides me.” She rolls her eyes. “You’ll have to wait till Beth gets here. She’s been looking after it for me because, well, I know what you’re like.”

 “I’m not like anything, thank you very much.”

 Lucy giggles at their flirty exchange before interrupting to whine, “When’s Beth coming?”

 “Soon. She’s eating dinner with her boyfriend’s family and then coming to us.”

 “Wow, I’m suddenly feeling honored I even got an invitation,” Fitz says with a smile, his eyes glancing up from Lucy to Jemma with grateful humility. She can’t help but mirror his expression, touched by the vulnerability in his comment.

 “You always come with her,” Lucy replies, pointing at her aunt.

 “Should I go?”

 “No!” She reaches up to put her arms around him, turning to hug him properly. Jemma leans in too and Lucy opens her arms to embrace them both at once, standing on his lap, only just light enough that it’s not uncomfortable for Fitz.

 The three of them are still wrapped up in a teasing back-and-forth as Lucy pries with childish innocence into their sudden physical closeness, noticed by all, when Beth and her boyfriend arrive to an excited reception. As soon as Lucy gets wind of this, she beckons Beth to bring Fitz his gift. Beth looks at her sister for approval before disappearing back to her car.

 When she returns, there’s a noticeable quiet from the kids before she comes back into the lounge, where Fitz and Jemma are still sitting with Lucy. Fitz can’t help his curiosity and leans around to the doorway, impatiently awaiting Jemma’s surprise. It’s a mystery. The changed energy in the room convinces him that everyone else knows what’s about to happen.

 Jemma starts her pre-present spiel: “It’s always tough getting presents for the man with all the toys. You just make whatever you want; you’re your own personal Santa Claus, making it a little hard to know what to get for you. But there’s one thing I know you really want…”

 And then Beth’s back. Holding a sweet little ball of black fluff.

 “No,” he gasps. “Really?”

 With Jemma and Lucy still sat on his lap, Beth cautiously lifts the dog over them to place it in Fitz’s arms as they watch, mesmerized by the calm young pup. Jemma looks up for Fitz’s reaction, beaming smugly at his gaping mouth and whispering, “Merry Christmas, babe.”

 His attention shifts from the dog to Jemma, in awe of both.

 “I was thinking about getting us a dog anyway and when I talked to the rescue center, they mentioned they had a little mutt named Monkey. When I met her, I knew she belonged to you,” Jemma explains, her hand moving to pet the docile dog Fitz cradles protectively. “I thought she looked so similar to the little black Tibetan terrier you showed me pictures of from when you were little, too.”

 Lucy notices a tear running down his nose and uses her index finger to fend it off. “Are you sad?” she asks, concern etched into her sweet expression.

 He laughs a breath. “No, no. I’m happy. This is the best present I’ve ever had. I’m just… speechless.” Fitz gives Jemma a peck on the lips before bringing the dog up to his face and kissing her too. Lucy, feeling a little left out, places a sudden peck onto his cheek, and he smiles back at her.

 “There’s a turn-up for the books,” Jemma replies, leaning her head on his shoulder and petting their new puppy in rhythm with Fitz’s own strokes.

 “Thank you,” he says into her ear, punctuating it with a kiss to her cheek.


	11. Joy to the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Jemma host their own Christmas celebrations, with a merry surprise for friends and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with me. Hope you enjoy these last two. I thought I'd bring everyone together for the penultimate chapter!

“Fitz and I just wanted to thank you all for spending the holidays here. It means the world to have everyone we love here in our home,” Jemma says, welling up as she looks around the room at the warm smiles of her nearest and dearest. She has their beloved little black dog cradled in her arms and unconsciously pulls her in closer as she speaks. “You’ve all hosted magical Christmases for us over the years…”

 “…We thought it was about time we return the favor. But before we get to presents and food, we have a little surprise for everyone outside,” Fitz announces, his arm resting over Jemma’s shoulders as they stand together by the fireplace in their newly decorated lounge. The eyes of their friends and family all move inquisitively to the French windows that face out onto their garden, while Daisy discreetly offers a knowing, reassuring glance to her friends.

 The crowd – made up of Fitz’s mother, Jemma’s family and the team – all begin to shuffle slowly outside, with Fitz and Jemma following behind. Once they’re in the garden, a couple of snowmen at the other end of the lawn come into view. The Simmons nieces run excitably to get a proper look with Hunter following immediately behind. On closer inspection, they discover that the snowmen are decorated with an old model of Simmons’ favorite full-spectrum goggles and one of Fitz’s old scarves, respectively. Both are carved perfectly, as though from a textbook, each giant ball of snow an immaculate sphere of white.

 Moving closer, the change in perspective reveals a third, smaller snowman beside the other two. Fitz and Jemma watch Hunter examine it just as the rest of the group begins to get a clear view. Its branch arms point upwards toward the bigger ones. Around its neck hangs a little notice that simply reads, “Coming soon.”

 Whispers of excited confusion spread amongst the group, so Jemma decides to clear things up. She places Monkey on the ground, prompting the dog to lie across Fitz’s feet to avoid the cold snow, before unzipping her coat to allow a distinguishable bump to poke out. With her hands sitting proudly on her bump, Jemma waits for any of them to notice. Her mother’s the first to realize, uttering a disbelieving, “Are you–?”

 “What?” Judy Fitz starts, turning her head to chase up the end of Lynn’s question.

 “Jem?” Izzy asks, instinctively reaching to clutch the hand of her mother in gleeful anticipation of the answer. They know the answer. It’s obvious. But it’s too good to be true as far as they’re concerned.

 Bobbi and Daisy exchange smiles, but their relatively muted reaction prompts Hunter to bitterly whisper, “You knew already?”

 His wife – _or ex-wife_ , depending on the day – rolls her eyes. “We’re S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, babe.”

 “Yes, umm, I’m really quite pregnant, actually,” Jemma explains nervously, the eyes of everyone she loves staring her down with fervent interest. “Well, it’s a binary state, obviously, but… what I mean is… we wanted to keep it as a Christmas surprise. In five months, we’re having a baby girl.”

 Fitz’s mother immediately bursts into tears but he seems to expect it, preemptively moving in her direction as his wife finishes speaking – much to his reposed dog’s displeasure. He catches Judy in a supportive hug and sweetly rubs his hand across her back. Everyone else urgently rushes to Jemma to congratulate her, forming a less-than-orderly queue for hugs, before Fitz frees himself up to take some of the pressure off his wife.

 When everyone heads back inside, bubbling with excitement, Fitz and Jemma are left alone with their sweet little replica snow-family as their dog protectively circles them, her paws marking circles into the snow. Jemma gazes at their masterpiece with an expression unreadable to anyone but her husband. He brings a hand to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear with the gentlest touch, the graze of his fingers stirring that unabating pull from the very root of her. Her eyes watch his in close-up, eyebrows drawing together.

 “Jemma?” Fitz instinctively reaches an arm around her, resting his hand on her hip with an assured firmness. She moves to his touch, settling her head in the curve of his neck. It’s a home crafted just for her. The hard line of his shoulder has held strong under the crushing heaviness that anchors her head against it. It doesn’t erode under the weight of her. It holds her up.

 “I’m okay,” she lies, knowing full well that he hears the truth behind her words.

 Fitz pulls her closer, his hand sliding up to her waist as his head tilts to rest over hers. Jemma closes her eyes. She gets lost in him, immerses herself in the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

 “Fitz, it’s terrifying,” she confesses, breath hitching as moisture soaks into his coat; he can’t feel it, but he knows nevertheless. “I’m happy. We have a beautiful life, and this beautiful moment. But every bit of joy is swallowed by this fear.”

 “Nothing’s gonna hurt us, Jem,” he promises, optimism having slowly permeated his core in the wake of their shared traumas. Curses have transformed into triumphs. The universe did its worse and yet somehow they made it all the way to snowmen in Perthshire hand-in-hand. This is an old promise, told dutifully whenever needed. His delivery holds all of its feeling, richly offering resolve and comfort in equal measure.

 She curls into him, face lifting above his shoulder and arms reaching around to take him in a hug. He feels the protrusion of her stomach pressing against his.

 “I don’t want her to be scared,” she says, meek. “Of anything. I want her to be brave and strong but, more than anything, I want her to be happy.”

 “Jemma,” he sighs, searching his mind for the words – the delay is caution more than injury. She waits for him without interruption, pulling out of their hug to look him in the eye, locking in for the close-up. “We’re all those things at once. We’re scared. We’re brave. We’re strong – never been stronger, in fact. But Jemma, I’m so happy. More than any of that other stuff, I’m happy.”

 “Me too,” she concedes, breathing out an even breath.

 “She’s gonna make us happy. Even more happy,” he clarifies. “And we’ll do the same for her, yeah? We’ll protect her from our fears.”

 She leans forward, with barely any gap to close, and kisses him lightly on the lips. It’s comfortable and familiar.

 “I love you.”

 “I love you back.” Jemma smiles, bringing her hand to rest against his jaw and brushing her thumb across his bottom lip.

 “We should go back inside. You must be getting chilly.”

 “Don’t fuss,” she says with a laugh.

 “Oh, I’m definitely gonna fuss,” he replies, a charming grin breaking out across his face before he confidently leans in for a real kiss. It’s met with enthusiasm. When they pull away, their foreheads move to rest against each other before he reaches for her hand and leads her back inside. “Come on, you. I want dibs on those parsnips.” Their dog follows obediently behind, keeping close to their feet.

 “Oh, yeah, because there’s a real parsnip rush on.”

 “You don’t know. One of these Christmases, word’s gonna get out about those beauties and I’m not gonna take any chances that today’s the day.”

 She laughs, adding a skip to her stride and swinging his arm a little. “If there was only one parsnip left and I–”

 “No! Jem, don’t ask me to sacrifice my parsnip. I love you, I do, but you don’t want me to choose between you and the parsnips. You won’t like the outcome.”

 She elbows him in the ribs, his own arm hitting lightly against his side with hers. “I’m eating for two!”

 “Hey, I don’t feel good about this,” he jokes, lifting their linked hands over her head to wrap his arm around her and pull her in for another kiss as they walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this one, I recommend staring endlessly at [this beautiful manip by memorizingthedigitsofpi.](http://memorizingthedigitsofpi.tumblr.com/post/135421881597/take-a-sad-kiss-and-make-it-better)


	12. Deck The Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though she usually excels at preparation, new motherhood and a heavy workload leave Jemma a little unprepared for the holidays. Fitz makes sure she gets the magical Christmas she deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to reiterate how grateful I've been for all the kind, encouraging comments on each chapter of this. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me from beginning to end with these fics. I started out with the idea of it being my gift to my loyal readers, but really I think I've gotten more out of this than anyone. I really wanted to show the progression of their relationship over all of these different Christmases - some angsty, some fluffy, some a little of both - and I've received such lovely feedback on each one. I'd love to hear which have been your favourites if you've been following along with it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this suuuuper fluffy final chapter. I thought I'd strip it all back for the last one so that it's pretty much just about Fitz and Simmons.
> 
> Happy holidays to all of you!

When Jemma stirs on Christmas morning, she expects Fitz to be sleeping beside her or sat up in their bed scrolling on his tablet, reading it like the morning paper. She instinctively turns onto her side to face him, her eyes still reluctant to open to stinging daylight, only to receive a wet lick across her nose. Instead of Fitz, she discovers their dog looking back at her. It’s a little disappointing but, given the bad breath, also something of a relief.

 “Should you be on the bed, Monkey?” she says, in an impotent attempt at discipline that she completely undermines by brushing her hand in loving strokes through the dog’s black fur. “Where’s your father, hey?” Jemma sternly raises her eyebrows at the dog, as though awaiting an answer.

 He’s pinning lights to the wall while singing ‘Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree’ to their daughter, or perhaps himself, when she finds him in their lounge. It’s a mess of sorts. There are boxes piled up on the sofa, with tinsel and baubles spilling out. The tree stands bare in the corner of the room, but cards hang decoratively on the walls and festive figurines adorn the mantelpiece. The cushion covers on the sofa have been swapped out for red and silver Fairisle ones. In the middle of the floor, Jemma sees her daughter, wearing an elf one-piece, gleefully entertaining herself with her activity center, as custom-designed by her father.

 Fitz remains oblivious to Jemma’s presence, far too focused on finishing the last of the festive light fixings until she sleepily asks, “Babe, what’s going on?”

 “Oh! Umm…” He jumps a little, nearly losing his balance on the stepladder. “Sophie was fussing so I brought her down here so you could sleep in a bit. You looked so cozy, all tucked up.”

 “I was talking more about all... this,” she explains, gesturing to all of the decorations.

 He shrugs. “Last night, you seemed stressed about not having the house ready for everyone so I thought…”

 Jemma’s face softens, realizing his intentions.

 “I just didn’t want you to be worrying about getting the house ready. I know it was on your mind,” he explains, stepping down from the ladder after securing the last of their fairy lights. As soon as he has two feet on solid ground, he moves to pick up his daughter. “I’ve been meaning to do it for days, to be honest, but you know, we’ve been so snowed under – pun intended. I thought I’d get it all done while you slept in.”

 “ _Fitz_ ,” she says, gushing. Jemma reaches out to rub Sophie’s back as her daughter sits in Fitz’s arms, looking between her parents with wide eyes.

 “I didn’t do the tree. I thought you’d want to do that.” He nods in the direction of their tree ornaments, the novelty TARDIS, Battlestar Galactica and Millennium Falcon ones sitting proudly atop their collection in a box positioned next to the tree. Strips of tinsel lie nearby in an array of seasonal colors.

 She gives him a grateful smile, eyes glistening, before simply replying, “Thank you.”

 “Happy Christmas, Jem,” he says warmly, as warmly as words were ever spoken, before leaning in to kiss her sweetly on the lips.

 “Happy Christmas, Fitz.” She moves a hand to caress his cheek before her attention turns to Sophie. “And look at you, daddy’s little elf.” Jemma showers her daughter’s face with silly, sloppy kisses and savors her favorite sound: that irrepressible baby giggle.

 “Good as gold all morning,” Fitz tells Jemma, giving Sophie a proud smile. His word on the matter is far from unbiased but Jemma doesn’t need convincing. If he told her Sophie had managed time travel, she’d believe it. Besides, crazier things have happened.

 “She’s a sucker for the holidays already,” she decides. “The Christmas spirit is strong in this one. That’s the Simmons genes.”

 Fitz laughs. “Hey, I got plenty of holiday cheer. Look at Santa’s grotto in here – all me!”

 “Yeah, but I’m onto you.”

 “What?”

 “I know your secret,” Jemma teases. He looks at her, genuinely curious – a little nervous, too. Her expression turns from a playful grin to something more serious, a searching look in her eye, as though she’s reading his internal monologue. “I know you do it all for us.”

 “I’d do a lot more than this,” he tells her nonchalantly, adjusting his hold of Sophie to ensure he doesn’t lose hold as she reaches out to her mother.

 Jemma sighs, the truth of it only making her weary. With all of its romanticism, the message contains a terrifying infinity, of which she hopes never to discover the boundaries. “I know you would, Fitz.”

 “Still wouldn’t compare to what you’ve done for me.”

 Her blank expression prompts him to gesture towards the seven-month-old he holds protectively in his arms. Then he locks in Jemma’s gaze, confident and relaxed. If a single look could encapsulate the endless reach of his love for her, this would be it. Gratitude mixes with disbelief. There’s a glee to his expression; he can’t quite get used to their happiness, he can’t stop pointing it out, as though it might not last a second longer and he doesn’t want to miss his chance – except it _does_ last, it _will_ last.

 “Ridiculous man,” is all Jemma can think to say, as much to their daughter as to him. She fights off an eye-roll, but just barely. It’s hard to know what to do with all the love that comes pouring out of him on far too regular an occasion. “You never stop, do you?”

 “Oh, I’ll always be here to drive you crazy,” he says with a smug grin.

 “You better be.”

 Jemma flashes him a warning smile, intention clear in her eyes as she draws him into a tender kiss. His lips taste of the peppermint candy cane he finished off just before she’d found him, the secret treat he’d thought she’d never find out about, and it appeals to her festive spirit. She pulls away momentarily to smile, but again closes the gap to kiss him with a little extra enthusiasm. A bubble forms around them, out of time and out of space. It’s expanded over the years, no longer a world built for two – they’re a trio now, wherever they escape, their daughter is with them. Jemma’s hand rests cautiously on Sophie’s back to make sure she’s not squashed in the middle of their embrace, to make sure that Jemma doesn’t lose herself under the pull of his lips. It’s dizzying and passionate, and the kind of kiss that even years of practice don’t take the blush out of.

 When they part, it’s because Sophie fidgets between them. Jemma takes her from Fitz and kisses her sweetly on the forehead, instantly soothing her. “We making you uncomfortable? Yeah, we get that a lot.”

 “What are parents for if not to embarrass their kids?” Fitz says with a playful smile. His daughter just chuckles delightedly as his face nears hers. “Speaking of which, what time are they descending upon us?”

 “Couple of hours.”

 “Right, so one Star Wars movie?”

 “We still have to wrap all their presents and do the tree,” Jemma points out.

 “We could watch and wrap. I definitely feel like it’ll speed up my wrapping,” Fitz argues, confident he’ll bring her around. “Think of the efficiency, Jem. We could have wrapping stations.”

 “Fine, but only if it’s Empire Strikes Back,” she concedes, shaking her head at her daughter in faux irritation before turning back to him. “I want your best wrapping though. You can’t just cop out with all the square boxes.”

 “Sophie, you listening to this?” he jokes.

 “Listen, you set the movie up and I’ll just run and get dressed quickly, ‘kay?” she suggests, passing Sophie back to her dad and kissing him on the cheek. He watches her dash off and stands staring even after she’s disappeared from sight. Eventually he looks at his daughter, again struck by his appreciation of everything that surrounds him, and, for just a second, struggles to catch his breath.

 She’s Jemma’s miniature, just in case he needed the reminder. She lights up the room just the same as her mother. In his eyes, Sophie is pretty much the epitome of perfection, a symbol of the family that he and Jemma have cultivated together – of both blood and friendship. He puts her down to a miracle. How else could something so wonderfully impossible and impossibly wonderful bless his life? It’s the only explanation he can fathom; though, he has to smile to himself imagining Jemma’s reaction if ever he used the word “miracle” aloud.

 His first Christmas as a father might just be his merriest yet and he’s all the more grateful when he reflects on every year that’s come before – good and bad, with Jemma and without. He thinks of the family that will fill their home in a matter of hours, about all of the traditions they’ve formed together: jumpers and parsnips and stargazing and snowmen. They’ve made a life together, they’ve built a life together. _He’s home_. Merry Christmas, indeed.


End file.
